I came down the steps of the building and crossed toward the public park, where the trees had gone amber and gold and were letting their leaves down lazily onto the cobblestone paths, a few at a time, in no hurry at all.

I had spent so many years in a hurry.

Hurrying to smooth things over, hurrying to anticipate, hurrying to be small enough and quiet enough and pleasant enough to keep a fragile peace from shattering.

I had mistaken all that hurrying for the ordinary business of a life.

It was only now, walking unhurried through falling leaves with nowhere I had to be and no one I had to manage, that I understood how much of me the hurrying had been using, and how much of me there turned out to be, once it stopped.

A woman walked through a park in the gold evening light, carrying her own briefcase, going home to a quiet she had chosen.